


Bad Decisions

by writergirl8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, I can't believe I just used that tag, PWP, Who am I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 15:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6711385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn’t really know what changed with Lydia, but there seemed to be a moment one day where they had just both decided, together, to stop being angry. And now they’re here, at one of Danny’s parties, with Lydia’s red nails wrapped around Stiles’ wrist as she pulls him through the long hallways, keeping her head down as they head straight for the booze. </p><p>(The truth is, people only ever really go to Danny’s parties when they want to get fucked up.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> Um, so it is 4:17 in the morning, and I just finished this, and it was supposed to be a drabble for Stilesbanshee on tumblr but I'm trash and it became... yikes. This. So, anyways, this is basically just Stiles and Lydia working out their sexual frustration in a way that feels... kinda right to me, given the circumstances. And I want you to know that there is a zero-percent chance that I would have been able to post this if it wasn't 4am, so with that in mind, enjoy it before my shame kicks in and I pull it down! 
> 
> The ask meme was "different ways to say I love you," and the prompt was "Over a beer bottle." 
> 
> Side note-- all the high school rumors Lydia talks about are actual rumors/things that happened in my high school. Bless.

The truth is, people only ever really go to Danny’s parties when they want to get fucked up.

 

Stiles spent most of high school hearing stories about them, which was okay, except for the fact that he never actually got to  _ go  _ to the parties. People would pile into school on Sunday morning and talk about their epic adventures and Stiles would turn to give Scott a meaningful glare because they had spent the whole weekend playing video games together via xbox. 

 

It’s different now, though. Because Lydia is friends with Danny. And Stiles, in a plot twist that shocks even him, is now Lydia’s best friend. Has been since the beginning of senior year, when both of them had seemed to just… given up. Given up staying away from each other. Given up on the whole thing where they bothered to pretend like they weren’t hiding anything with anger. 

 

Stiles doesn’t really know what changed with Lydia, but there seemed to be a moment one day where they had just both decided, together, to stop being angry. And now they’re here, at one of Danny’s parties, with Lydia’s red nails wrapped around Stiles’ wrist as she pulls him through the long hallways, keeping her head down as they head straight for the booze. 

 

“You like beer, right?” she asks, joking lightly because she knows he doesn’t from the last time they’d gotten drunk together. 

 

“Why’d you look at the floor like that?” he asks. 

 

“What?” Lydia says absently, pretending that she didn’t hear him, but he knows she did. 

  
“Why did you look at the floor?”

 

His voice is a challenge, and he takes the beer from her fingers, opening it for himself and taking a swig from the bottle. Lydia blinks, surprised. Then a small smile drifts across her lips, and she pours herself a shot of vodka, downing it in a single gulp, cringing as it hits her tongue. She checks the bottle, realizes that it’s lemonade flavored, and rolls her eyes before saying, 

 

“I don’t really know anybody here anymore, Stiles.”   
  
“So?”    
  
“So this isn’t… what it used to be.”   
  
“So why’d you drag me out here?” he asks, smirking knowingly. Lydia frowns, then turns back to the table, busying herself with creating a vodka cranberry. 

 

“It’s definitely not because you always wanted to go to one of these.” 

 

He leans his hip against the wall that the table is set against. 

 

“No?” he questions lightly. 

 

“No,” Lydia says, turning back to him and nudging her red solo cup against his beer lightly. “Come on. Let’s go sit in the back corner and judge drunk people.” 

 

“Hallefrickingluja,” mutters Stiles, grabbing the hand that she offers to him as she takes a long sip from her drink. Lydia leads him through the party again, eventually finding her way to the back of the living room, where she locates a giant armchair and allows Stiles to plop himself into it first before she sits on the large armrest, curling her body around the back of the chair so that she can whisper things to him about their classmates. 

 

The fun thing about this is that Lydia has  _ dirt  _ on all these people— good dirt, like who made out with their cousin, and who got caught giving head in the baseball dugout, and who got a starburst stuck up where she definitely doesn’t want anybody to know she got it stuck because it was her boyfriend’s favorite candy.

 

Stiles feels like a total asshole, but in an exhilarating way. In a  _ beautiful  _ way. In the best goddamn way possible, because there’s guys with red solo cups talking to girl’s tits and girls stumbling around half drunk and meanwhile, Lydia is curled up around him, her voice warm and happy as she talks about the people who used to pretend to like her. 

 

Well, Stiles doesn’t pretend to like her. He  _ actually  _ likes her. And he likes this. It feels easy. It feels good. 

 

“They’re idiots,” Lydia says fondly, her finger finding the back of his neck, where she begins to lightly draw the word  _ idiot  _ across his skin. Stiles turns to give her a look, and Lydia smiles at him smugly. It definitely shouldn’t be as cute as it is. She’s so smug  _ all the time _ . It’s sickening, really. 

 

“I dunno,” he says, shrugging. “In the defense of idiots everywhere… I think I could stand to make a bad decision or two.”   
  
“You could, huh?”  
  
“Oh yeah. I mean… not the colossally bad decisions that lead to actual calamity. But, you know, getting caught blowing someone in the baseball dugout doesn’t actually seem that bad, comparably.” 

 

The laugh that Lydia shoots in his direction is too big, too happy, and her eyes are bright with mischievousness as she takes another neat sip of her drink. 

 

“Are you asking me to find you a bad decision?” she asks, gesturing towards the crowd with a lazy flick of her wrist. “Is that what’s happening here?”

 

“Nah,” says Stiles, shrugging noncommittally. “I actually don’t think I’m the type of guy who’s very good at making that type of bad decision.”    
  
“Ohhh I  _ see _ ,” Lydia responds. She nods understandingly. “You’re asking me to  _ be  _ the bad decision.”    
  
He blinks once, then a bunch of times in a row, too quickly. 

 

“Uh, what?”

 

“I mean, as far as terrible choices go, I’d say I might just be the worst you could make.” 

 

He stares at her over the lip of his second beer, feeling himself drawn into her so completely that it feels like they are the only two people in the room. He can hear her perfectly, despite the buzz of conversation around them. Stiles’ eyes are captivated by the way Lydia’s tongue drifts lazily across her teeth behind her bright red lipstick, and he suddenly cannot stop staring at her. Doesn’t think he could even if he was forced to. 

 

“Yeah, uh, you might be right about that.” 

 

“It could ruin our friendship.”   
  
“For sure.”   
  
“It could make things awkward tomorrow.” 

 

“Yeah. Definitely.” 

 

Suddenly, her eyes look  _ quiet  _ despite the fact that that the rest of her is teasing him. 

 

“It could mess everything up, Stiles.” 

 

He nods, agreeing with the sentiment but also not knowing when he jumped onto this train with her. 

 

“Or it could be really fuckin’ good.” Lydia swallows hard. She stares. He stares back. “We don’t have to, though,” Stiles adds. “I mean, it’s a bad decision for a reason.” 

 

To be honest, she is every bad decision he has ever made since he was eight-years-old. She hurts more than every knee scrape and toe stub, and he wants her more than he can remember ever wanting anything, including a beautiful, crappy blue car that he bought with his own money. 

 

He looks away from her studious gaze, not wanting her to be able to see what he’s thinking. Not wanting her to know how much he wants this. 

 

All of his feelings are connected to Lydia somehow; they’re the most powerful when he’s around her. So it should be no surprised when her lips lightly touch the back of his neck, brushing over the skin that is vulnerable to her. She kisses the nape of his back and moves to the cheek that is closest to her, finally getting her lips to touch his ear as she speaks against it. 

 

“I could stand to make a bad decision too,” she whispers, and he shudders at her voice so close to his ear. 

 

Her warmth is gone in a moment, and she’s across the room in her black dress and her heels, shooting him a smile that goes straight to his dick just because it’s for him. It’s for him. Stiles scrambles out of the armchair, ignoring the hordes of drunk teenagers as he follows Lydia. He sees her vanish into a hallway, and he jogs into it, eyes searching curiously until finally the door to the closet opens and a hand grabs the back of his shirt, pulling. 

 

“Lydia?”   
  
“No, it’s just some other redhead accousting you.” 

 

“Happens  _ all  _ the time.”    
  
“I would suspect as much.”    
  
He can’t see her in the dark of the closet, but suddenly he can feel her as her small hand slides up the back of his shirt, pressing flat against his warm skin and pulling him towards her. 

 

“Hey,” he says, voice rough and low, but then he can’t speak because Lydia’s mouth is on his. He holds his beer bottle slightly over his head, wanting it out of the way as Lydia’s mouth goes  _ at  _ his. She tastes like vodka and lipstick, and it’s completely different from the first kiss that they shared, but it consumes him in the exact same way. “Aw, fuck,” Stiles groans when she scrapes her nails lightly up and down his back, and Lydia chuckles against his mouth, making him feel even more deliriously ravenous for her than he had been before. 

 

“Hey yourself,” she replies, pulling back, and he doesn’t know how drunk she is but she seems so light that he wants to fucking cry. He wants her to be happy all the fucking time. None of this bullshit in between stuff. He just wants it to be good. 

 

He wants everything to be right for Lydia Martin because he loves her. Always fuckin’ has. 

 

Stiles uses the hand that is clutching the beer bottle to shove Lydia back a little bit, stopping her from kissing him. In the dim light from the hallway, he can see a flash of alarm cross her face before her features shut down completely, blocking him out from whatever she’s thinking. 

 

“No,” he says hurriedly. “It’s not that. I just…” He swallows. “I want you.” 

 

It means ‘I love you,’ but she can’t know that, not yet, because if she still thinks that there is any part of him that would push her away at any point, during anything, even a stupid makeout session in a closet, Stiles thinks that he has to make that go away before he can get down to the nitty gritty. To the growing old together stuff, the stuff that lives in the back of his mind with vines growing over it. The stuff that he shoves to the forefront on nights when he gets drunk by himself; when he needs to not feel as alone. There’s an apartment in the fantasy, and Lydia in one of his shirts, and she sometimes she’s trying to steal the remote from him, her face getting pinker as she gets more annoyed. Sometimes she’s on top of him, nails leaving little half-moons in his shoulders as she rides him with her head thrown back and his shirt still on. 

 

He wishes that the fantasies had gone away, but they hadn’t, and he’s still utterly, disgustingly hers. But they’re not in this closet for a speech. They’re here for a hookup that supposedly means nothing, and he’s going to follow through because she’s not looking at him like she’s scared anymore. Instead, she’s assessing. She’s looking around the space, raking her eyes up and down his body, trying to decide what she wants and how best to get it. 

 

God, he loves that face. 

 

“I swear, Lydia, tell me what you’re thinking right now and I’ll do it. I’ll do the first thing in your head.” 

 

“I want… I…”    
  
She traces her tongue across her bottom lip, and suddenly it hurts to not be touching her. He dips his head into her neck because he needs to feel like he’s in this with her, and he slides his hands onto her ass just because it’s Lydia Martin’s ass and he fucking wants to. 

 

“Tell me,” he mumbles into her neck.  

 

“Want to kiss you for _ ever _ ,” she says, moaning it out as his lips find her collarbone. “I want you to press me against the wall… I want you inside of me… I want your stupid  _ mouth _ —” 

 

He kisses his way from her collarbone to her sternum, then gets lower, kissing his way between her breasts over her dress and down her stomach until he finally finds himself on his knees in front of her, lifting the hem of her dress and letting his breath whoosh out across her stomach. 

 

“Stiles,” she murmurs as he presses his lips against her soft skin. At the sound of her voice saying his name, he closes his eyes, squeezing them shut before he rests his forehead against her stomach and remains against her for several moments. Lydia’s fingers find his hair, and she strokes it softly before Stiles slithers up her body again and slams her against the back wall of the closet, making sure to cradle the back of her head with his hand as he does so. A moment later, she’s crying out as his fingers dip into her panties briefly, feeling how soaked she is for him. “Shit,” she says, leaning her forehead against his. “Stiles?”

  
“Yeah,” he replies roughly. “I know.”

 

She places her hands on his shoulders as she kisses him, and he moves his hands to cup her ass again, letting Lydia hitch herself up until she’s pressed between him and the wall, her legs wrapped around his body. For a moment, her head lolls back against the stucco of the wall as Stiles mouths at her neck again, addicted to the scent of perfume mixed with sweat. Then she guides his mouth back to hers, hands softly stroking his cheeks as she begins to rub herself against him, whining into his mouth when he starts to move as well. 

 

“ _ God, _ Lydia.”    
  
“Mhhmm?” she says breathily, like she isn’t sure if he’s really there— if she’s really replying to anyone. Just to prove it to her, he speeds up, and Lydia lets out an uncharacteristic grunt of surprise, low and guttural.

  
“Oh fuck,” Stiles says as she drags one of his hands to her torso, leaving it on her breast and allowing him to do what he pleases as her noises get higher in pitch. “You wanna come this way, Lydia?”   
  
“Mhm,” she assents, still seeming far away, and when he nips lightly at her collarbone, she stretches her torso almost languidly upwards so that his face is closer to her breasts. Instead of focusing on them, he angles his head up towards her face to leave a small kiss on her chin, and Lydia rakes a hand through his hair as she tilts down towards him. They kiss lightly as they both get closer, and when it becomes too much, Lydia closes her eyes shut and just pants into Stiles’ mouth, sharing breaths with him. 

 

A few moments later, her eyes squeeze hard and her mouth opens as she whines, her head arching backwards, slamming too hard against the wall. 

 

“Aw, shit,” Stiles says, stopping instantly. He lowers the both of them to the ground, checking to see if Lydia’s alright, but she’s rolling her eyes at him like he’s an idiot. 

 

“Stiles, I’m  _ fine _ .” 

 

“You just—?”

 

“I’m aware,” she says flatly. “Are you planning on taking me to the hospital for a bump on the head, or are you going to get off?”

 

The moment feels completely broken, except he’s still hard in a way that’s making him want to slam his head against the wall just like Lydia had. 

 

“Uh, that’s—” 

  
“Come on, Stiles,” she says, voice low and teasing. “Aren’t you going to come for me?”

 

He covers his eyes with his hands, thinking that this is the second time tonight he’s humiliatingly close to shooting his load in his pants. Except then Lydia’s taking a drag from his beer and her hands are on the button of his stupid red pants and he’s lifting his hips for her to slide them down and she’s wrapping her small hand around his dick and he comes so quickly that he thinks it might have been less embarrassing to do it in his pants. Seriously. He wants to shame spiral, just a little bit. 

 

They sit there, silent, for several moments. Stiles tucks himself back in and zips up his pants, wondering if he should be feeling awkward. When Lydia meets his eyes, hers are not apologetic. But that doesn’t explain how they’re going to behave when they leave this closet, or when they see each other tomorrow. She isn’t sorry. But that doesn’t explain anything away. 

 

But maybe they don’t need any of that. Maybe this is just a story of a party, and if they have a another one to tell on another day, then… well. That’s a different story. 

 

“So,” Stiles says, breath ragged. “How’s that for a mistake?”

 


End file.
